Idiocy, or How Hugo Weasley Got His Name
by dogstar-ebony
Summary: This is my explanation for why, out of all the pretty names in the world, JKR chose HUGO for the youngest Weasley child, and a kind of unofficial oneshot sequel to 'Making Weasleys'. Kind of funny. Post DH, pre-epilogue. RR!


What's the stupidest thing you've ever done in your entire life?

No, seriously. What one thing was so singularly, embarrassingly, unbelievably foolish that even thinking of it now just to label it that causes your insides to squirm uncomfortably and your face to burn white hot? I ask because I hope I'm not the only idiot in the world. I ask so that when Hermione finds out what I've done and tries to hex me into oblivion, I can tell her there are other stupid people out there, and she just got the rotten luck of marrying one of them.

It's all George's fault, of course. And Harry. It has to be their fault because if it's _their _fault then it can't be _my_ fault, and, obviously, this will make a good defence to Hermione. And then she won't kill me, hopefully. Well, at least not as much, anyway.

Maybe I should start from the beginning, and then you'll understand my predicament. My wife, around a year ago, developed amnesia. Don't ask me how, because I don't know. This condition meant that she forgot all about the fact neither of us got a full night's sleep for an entire year, the fact that our walls are now often rather attractively decorated with mashed banana, and the fact that her hair had only recently calmed down now that Rose actually sleeps for periods longer than three minutes, meaning she can run a brush through it, and she decided that she'd quite like to have another baby.

Not that I was complaining too much. For a start, there's all the fun of trying…Not to mention the fact that my daughter Rosie is absolutely gorgeous, even if I do say so myself. Much prettier than my nephew James, although being a boy (and Harry's son) does mean that he's at a bit of a disadvantage prettiness-wise. That, coupled with the fact that he's now six and at the age where he won't come inside the house until he has covered himself with a layer of mud at least an inch thick, whereas Rosie is still not yet three and, thanks to Hermione and Ginny, owns quite possibly every single little pink dress that has ever been made in the world ever. At the time, though, Rosie was barely eighteen months old, and so I still bore the scars of an uneasy early childhood. And I do mean literal scars – who knew bassinets could be so lethal?

But like I said, I wasn't exactly complaining. For one thing, Hermione mellows out when she's pregnant. Most people go haywire thanks to their hormones, but not Hermione; she's so highly strung anyway that the next step is simply this weird calm. Absolutely nothing will anger her. And I tried, believe me. I searched deep within me, located what little tact I actually possess, and I threw it all away. I became so desperate for an argument, for a return to normalcy, that I threw everything I had at her. And absolutely nothing worked. Still, I suppose, I'll definitely be getting that argument now, because as soon as I walk through the door and tell her what happened, I'll be begging for her to be pregnant again.

Anyway, Hermione became pregnant again, and life resumed as normal (minus the arguments, of course). Her stomach swelled and rounded, her face filled out once more, and she began to talk excitedly of names. Of course, Harry, not to be outdone, decided around then that he and Ginny would quite like to have another child too, despite the fact that Albus had only recently had his second birthday. Personally I think he's going for a litter.

The time passed quickly, as time does when you're looking forward to something, and soon I found myself back in the hospital, wincing as my darling wife gripped my hand (she is extraordinarily strong when she wants to be, and she grew her nails especially for the occasion, though she _insists_ it was a coincidence they were an inch long) and assured me that this was nothing compared to what I had done to _her_ (note to self: do not ever, under any circumstances, again scoff and tell Hermione in this situation, "Wanna bet?". She can, and _will_, rise to the challenge. I still can't walk properly now, and it's three days later.)

My son came out frowning. Honestly, he did. So I laughed, naturally. And got given pain, naturally. And then he opened his mouth and let out the highest pitched noise I have ever heard in my life. It was amazing. It sounded like he was possessed. (Further note to self: do not, under any circumstances, tell a recently un-pregnant mother that her child appears possessed. Research shows that it is, in fact, the mother who appears to become possessed, and will quickly become violent.)

Hermione wouldn't name him, for some bizarre reason. She decided, inexplicably, that it was my duty to name my son, a challenge I accepted gallantly. And then reneged on, because not one single appropriate name came to mind. All I could think of were ridiculous names, names like _Clym_ and _Fritz_ and_ Turnip Head._ Luckily Hermione was insistent that until I thought of a decent name she would not pick anything, which bought me some time.

Time which my evil brother and equally evil friend decided would best be spent on wetting the baby's head. In other words, going out tonight and getting extraordinarily drunk. It was after approximately six Firewhiskys and eight Butterbeers that the game of dares came up. Suggested by George, of course.

"Right mate," he said to Harry, slurring his words. "You've got to stand on this table, and shout out 'Filch is a sexy beast!' or you do the forfeit."

Naturally, full of alcohol, Harry acquiesced. Then it was George's turn.

"You," Harry said, squinting blearily around the bar and hugging his bottle to his chest. "You have toooooooo…." His gaze alighted on an enormously fat wizard slumped over the bar and nursing an enormous frothing goblet. "Chat him up."

"No problem," George had said confidently, though he returned minutes later looking worried. "He took me seriously," he said by way of explanation, and when Harry and I exploded into laughter he ducked down in his seat a little, blocking the fat wizard's view of him.

"Alright, smartarse," he said to me. "If you think that's so funny, why don't you go lick the bar? And not just put your tongue on it, I mean lick the _entire_ bar – right through the spills and everything."

"No way!" I was drunk, sure, but there was no way I was licking a filthy bar. This was, after all, the Hog's Head, and health standards hadn't exactly improved since our schooldays. "I'll take the forfeit."

"Are you sure? You have to take it on Vow," George said, grinning inanely. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather lick the bar? Looks very tasty, Ronnie, yum yum -"

"I'll do the forfeit!"

At that, George seemed to sober up. He and Harry began whispering to one another and snickering loudly; they began to resemble Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil. In the time it took them to decide my fate, I had finished my Butterbeer and ordered another.

"Right, Ronnie. Arm please." George held out his own. "Harry, you be Bonder, that way you can't get in trouble, it'll just be me."

I gripped my brother's hand, feeling the calluses that roughened his fingers. Harry placed the tip of his wand against our hands.

"One last chance, Ronnie." George said, in a sing-song voice. "Are you _sure_ you don't wanna lick the bar?"

"NO!"

"Okay then…this is it, you have to do this now."

"Just get on with it, George!"

George cleared his throat and began to speak. "Will you, Ron, accept the help I and Harry have _graciously_ offered you?

"Yes."

"Will you name your newborn son, the newest Weasley, the name we have now chosen for you?"

"What!"

"Will you do it or not, Ron? It's this or lick the bar."

"_Fine_!"

"I didn't quite catch that."

"Yes, I will."

"Will you name your newborn son Hugo?"

"Hugo?"

"Yeah. Just Hugo."

"Okay. Yes."

Our hands were wreathed in fire as flames shot from the tip of Harry's wand, binding itself like a thick rope. Harry and George were now practically wetting themselves with laughter.

"What's so funny about the name Hugo?" I asked finally, dreading their answer.

"Well," said Harry. "It's not the _name_ so much as the _letters_."

"Right…" I said slowly, confused. "And what's so funny about the letters?"

"It's an abbreviation." George said, his face now completely serene, his eyes on mine, waiting for my reaction.

"An abbreviation for _what_?"

There was a brief pause whilst Harry and George looked at one another, before chiming in unison, "Hermione and Ugly Git's Offspring."

"We were toying with _Hairy_ Ugly Git's Offspring - " began George.

"Or _Huge_ Ugly Git," added Harry.

"But this one sounded better. This way there's hope for poor little Hugo." George said seriously. "He might not look like you."

And then the two of them were cackling so hard I thought it best simply to make my excuses and leave.

I decided to walk home. I'm still walking now. I could have Apparated and been home an hour ago, but then of course I'd have been dead an hour ago too. I'm not walking for the fun of it, you understand. I hate walking. I'm walking because I'm still desperately thinking of an excuse to tell Hermione so that she understands why her son must be named an acronym. It's not enough to hope she'll accept my choice of the name Hugo. She wants all our children's names to have a meaning; she likes to find the meaning in things. She'll definitely grill me on my choice. And I can't tell her it was George or Harry's suggestion either, because she'll get mad that I didn't choose it myself.

I'm at the door now. A foot of brick and cement separates me from what I know will become my doom. _Honey, let's call him Hugo, after my great uncle no one else in the family knows exists? _No, that'll never work. _Honey, don't you think _Hugo_ kind of sounds like _Hermione? Ugh, no, that's even worse than the uncle one. _We'll have another baby to make up for it?_

I am definitely dead.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

**Author's Note**

This is just a random oneshot that came to my mind and I had to write, I have no idea where it came from or why, but I thought of the first sentence and then it became how poor Hugo got his name. I hope I did a good job – it sounded a lot funnier in my head than what I seem to have written. Anyway, all feedback appreciated!


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